Chapter 8: Whispers Behind Stone

The halls of Vaedran Keep whispered when no one else did.

At first, I thought it was my mind playing tricks. That the soft murmurs carried through the walls were just echoes of distant footsteps or the brushing of wind through ancient stone. But as the hours passed and the moonlight shifted across the polished floors, the whispers remained.

I laid in bed staring at the ceiling, hands folded on his chest, mind spinning. I hadn't seen the Crown Prince again since arriving. Not even in passing. Every time I caught the shuffle of heavy boots down the corridor, I

half-expected to see that broad-shouldered silhouette appear in the doorway. But it never did.

There was no knock. No summons. Just stillness.

And in that stillness, the palace spoke.

Not with words, not directly. But I felt it. A pulse beneath the marble. A hum in the lanterns that flared slightly too bright when I passed. As though the magic woven through the palace walls had become aware of him.

Was it curiosity? Or warning?

He turned onto his side and groaned softly into the pillow.

He wasn't sleeping much anymore.

The garden vision still clung to me, haunting the edges of my mind: fire licking the sky, a crown burning on shadowed brows, and those eyes, silver, ancient, and locked on me like they already knew who I was.

What did it mean?

I wasn't from here. I didn't want to be here. And yet every step I took in this world seemed to tangle me deeper into a fate not my own.

A soft chime sounded. The tenth hour.

I sat up slowly, rubbing the back of my neck. The servants had been instructed not to disturb me unless summoned. Cael had told me that much. But something tugged at my chest tonight. A strange insistence that wouldn't let me rest.

So I got up.

—

The palace was quieter at night, but never empty.

Guards patrolled in measured silence, their armor dull against the glow of enchanted sconces. Servants moved like shadows, bowing slightly when they passed me, not out of respect, I guess, but out of suspicion. Or fear.

After all, I was the foreigner who'd touched the Disc of the Veil.

I was the stranger no one had summoned, yet no one dared send away.

I wandered, avoiding the main corridors, letting ny feet guide me until I reached a hall I hadn't seen before. The walls here were lined with old tapestries, faded from time but carefully preserved. Scenes of battles, coronations, and figures cloaked in fire and light.

And at the end of the corridor there was a door.

It wasn't grand, just carved wood with a silver handle.

Something told me I shouldn't open it.

Naturally, I did.

Inside was a study, dimly lit by a hearth burning low. Shelves lined every wall, stacked with scrolls, ledgers, and bound books with lettering he couldn't read. The air smelled of cedar and ink.

And seated at the desk, bent over parchment with sleeves rolled up and brows furrowed...

...was His Highness.

Minjae froze.

The prince didn't look up immediately. He was dressed in a deep blue tunic, his dark hair slightly tousled, strands falling over his forehead as he scribbled with sharp precision.

I started to step back, quiet, careful…

"You shouldn't wander alone."

His voice was calm, but not casual. Each word measured like a sword drawn halfway from its sheath.

"I-I didn't mean to intrude, Your Highness."

Eryndor finally looked up.

Those violet-gray eyes locked with mine. No warmth. But no venom, either.

"You have a habit of doing what you shouldn't," he said, standing. "Touching sacred artifacts. Walking into private chambers. Speaking when not spoken to."

I kept his expression neutral.

"Must be the tourist in me."

The prince didn't laugh. Of course he didn't.

He walked past me to close the door with a quiet click.

"For your safety," he said.

"Of course," I muttered. "Because the real danger is me opening the wrong door."

Eryndor turned to face me again, arms crossed. He studied me like he was trying to solve a riddle carved in a dying tongue.

"I don't trust you," the prince said plainly. "I don't trust how you arrived. I don't trust the magic that responded to you. And I don't trust the prophesy you seem to be entangled in."

I stared at him. "I didn't ask for any of this."

"Neither did I," Eryndor replied, voice lower now. "But we're both trapped in it."

There was silence then, heavy and crackling.

Something shifted in the prince's gaze. Not warmth. Not understanding. But weariness, maybe. Like he was carrying more than any man should.

I exhaled slowly. "I don't want to ruin your kingdom, if that's what you're worried about."

Eryndor didn't respond right away.

Instead, he walked to a tall shelf and pulled down a scroll, unrolling it across the desk.

I moved closer.

"What's that?"

"The oldest known transcription of the Prophesy of the Veil," Eryndor said.

The parchment was delicate, ink faded but still legible in curling script. Though I couldn't read the language, I recognized one thing, the symbol at the bottom.

The same one on the disc he touched.

My fingers itched.

"Does it say anything useful?" he asked.

Eryndor tapped a passage with his finger.

"It speaks of a veiled soul born of no realm, arriving in twilight when the threads begin to fray. It says he will either seal the breach…or widen it."

Damn.

I swallowed. "That's...comforting."

"I didn't summon you here," Eryndor said quietly. "But now that you're in this realm, your choices matter."

He looked at me again, this time without the sharp edges.

"You've become a hinge. History may turn on you."

I looked down at the scroll, then back at the prince.

"That's a hell of a thing to drop on someone who used to shelve ancient pottery for a living."

That earned a flicker of something, almost a smile. Almost.

Eryndor stepped back from the desk.

"There are eyes in this palace that report more than I allow. You need to tread carefully. Not everyone sees your presence as destiny. Some see it as invitation."

"Invitation to what?"

"To chaos," he said. "Or opportunity."

The flames in the hearth cracked louder.

"I'll try not to start a revolution while I'm here," I said.

The prince studied me one last time before turning away.

"I'm not worried about you starting one," he said over his shoulder. "I'm worried about what follows in your wake."

And with that, he walked out of the study, leaving me standing there surrounded by ancient words, silent walls, and the growing weight of a future he never asked for.

—